Fee Fie Faux

So I stumbled across this thing recently…

Even if you’re not a fan of Neil Gaiman, it’s worth watching. If you are a fan, it’s hugely funny. And if you’ve listened to Neil’s Audiobooks as much as I have (Which is to say obsessively) the above video is AMAZING.

My third time watching it, I started wondering, “Could we do something like this, but for my writing?”

At first I dismissed the thought as silly. For one thing, I don’t have Gaiman’s gorgeous voice and accent. I don’t think my writing style is as distinctive as his, either.

But the idea kept tickling at me. And the truth is, when I go to conventions, or events, or signings, I’m always looking for fun, bite-sized things I can read in front of a crowd.

So I’m finally saying “What the hell” and giving it a try. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t. But if it does work, this could be a lot of fun. I could read a couple on the JocoCruise next week, or when I’m out at Gencon. If nothing else, I’ll read the best of them on my twitch channel so everyone can see them, then upload them to youtube later for archival purposes.

So… yeah. If this is something that appeals to you, give me your best Bad Rothfuss style piece of writing in the form below. It should be NO MORE THAN 1800 characters (which is around 300 words).

I know. I know. How can you satirize my effluvient verbosity in only 300 words? Well… I don’t know. Maybe you’ll just have to pick some other element of my style to lovingly satirize. All I know is that if I don’t put a cap on these, we’ll end up with several hundred thousand words submitted and this will go from a fun little activity to a horrifying millstone around my neck. (And by my neck, I mean Amanda’s neck. Because she’s one of the folks who will be helping to winnow these down.)

Anyway. Be aware that the form is set to cut you off before you start to bloviate. What’s more, I let Amanda write her own sassy response that will pop up as an error if you go over the character count.

We’ve included a place in there for your name and e-mail, too. That way, I can give you credit if I read yours….

Loading…

So… yeah. Here you go. I’m curious to see what comes in, and read some of them in my best audio narrator voice….

58 Comments

This is a great idea, I can’t think straight at 3:37AM, but I will ponder this and come back when I’m not waiting for a 30 week premature baby to be born. (To a methadone clinic mom, who just learned she was pregnant 2 days ago, but didn’t let that stop her from using the other meth.)

in the spirit of pat’s request that we take care of each other, i want to make a suggestion that certain comments should be removed. comments regarding a meth addict and her premature baby, which were made by a person claiming to be a physician who could not think straight in the early morning hours, are not appropriate as a reply to this, or any, blog post. there must be at least 9,000 reasons why, but here are a few that should be obvious.

physicians should not openly discuss their patients…specific patients…in a public place unless consent has been given by that patient. physicians should not demean their own patients in public, ever. substance abuse/ substance dependency is a mental health disorder, according to the diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (dsm 5 is current), so a physician should not use a patient’s mental disorders as an excuse to disrespect that patient. in fact, everyone should know better than to do this, but a physician should not need to be told to respect their own patients. there are many, many, many social media venues where one can seek attention. there is no good reason to hijack a writer’s blog, which is dedicated to world building and not world gossiping, to seek personal attention.

if the stress of a medical practice is getting to be too much, then seek help. seek professional help. don’t use a semi-anonymous profile as a pedestal from which you might shame a person who obviously needs help and the beginnings of self esteem and self respect, and who is apparently your patient, so that you can somehow try to feel better about yourself.

if for no other reason, do not do these things out of a sense of self preservation. do you really believe that you are posting anonymously? the internet is not a vacuum. a few bored teenagers could…over the course of a weekend…find your name, address, your npi (individual physician number), and the identity of your patient, and then post it all publicly, with your comments, or send it to a news service. a serious hacker could do it in less time than you will use to read this message and realize the implications of what i am trying to explain.

hopefully it was just a well intentioned physician who made a poor choice in the early morning hours. but, right now, who is defending that meth addict and her baby? i am. who is trying to use them for personal gain? i hope their physician is not. i invite you to join me in defending them. she likely will never read those posts or know how she has been wronged, but that mother has a soul, which is being abused in print. i invite you to change your mind about those posts and remove them.

So after spending 25 years to write Name of the Wind, Pat wants us to attempt to recreate his style for hid amusement. I got to 100 words describing the different coins in my characters pockets and their relative exchange rates before I gave up! Perhaps in a way to say stop the horde bitching about book 3?

Hi Pat,
This is the first time I’ve written on here. I am a huge fan of your books and of everything else you do, and I want you to please know that I and many other of your fans really listen to you and understand that bugging you constantly about book 3 just frustrates you and causes you stress. To all the people who just can’t help themselves and keep haranguing Pat about his upcoming book, please know that all you’re doing is being counterproductive. You certainly aren’t making the book come out any faster; if anything you might be delaying it even more. If Pat’s too stressed to write, it’s either going to lead to no writing or sub-par writing, which I know none of us want. It’s pat’s determination to give you a perfect finished product you can’t help but love that is causing the book to take as long as it is. Anyway, back to the main point. Pat, I know I speak for most of your die hard fans when I say please, please take as long as you need. Take time to take care of yourself and to be with your family and just to make yourself happy. That way I’m sure you’re good feelings will flow into your writing. I and many other people really appreciate how hard you work to make sure the book will be perfect, and we will continue to wait, maybe not patiently, but definitely dutifully for the wonderful day when we get to open to the first page of Doors of Stone. I plan to order my signed copy from the tinker’s pack so the proceeds go to Worldbuilders Inc. To recap, Pat, please take care of yourself, take all the time you need, and don’t let the fan get you down ( : I for one will still be eagerly, quietly waiting even if it takes you the next 20 years to finish. Although I hope that doesn’t happen ( ;

It was like an autumn silent silence, the silence of fallen red leaves stuck unmoving in the excessive beard of the bearded man who was staring at his desk, past the beard. If there had been ramen, it’d have been a different kind of silence. The silent silence that empty stomachs would sound if they had food to make sound with, which they didn’t have money to make food with. But of course there was no ramen. All there was, it was the third silence. No wait, the second. The silent sound of a crumpled, empty, paper sheet. If there had been long awaited written words, there’d be silence, a reading silence of people reading. But the silence was the silent, crumpled sound of empty torn paper waiting to be written, which it wasn’t, because the bearded man had used all his words. He had the best words, but he had used them all, and so there were no written words, only silence, and swearing. The excessively bearded man liked swearing, and counting… to three. The third silence was long, never ending, like a crystal clear frozen waterfall on a snowy day with earmuffs on. It wrapped around the other two silences like a hardcover would around written words. It was the torn paper silence of a man waiting to write, as those who wanted the reading silence were breaking down his door, but he had no words. Nobody could mend the door, it was the broken door of a man waiting to write… The man lifted his hand, and wrote a single, perfect, word.

Please please can you post these somewhere??? Kashiraja2 put theirs on here and it was wonderful! I will eagerly await you reading them aloud somewhere, but surely you will get more entries than are possible time-wise. Or let us vote on favorites?

A winters path leads onward, almost undiscernible as it snakes into an ominous frozen forest. Forbidding shadows swallow the serpentine trail, malevolence leading onward into an even greater darkness. The baleful wind whips and thrashes anything that’s brave or strong enough to challenge its relentless onslaught, timeless, it shall never abate but only proffer brief periods of respite. The sun has forsaken the land and hides behind a consuming grey expanse that stretches limitlessly above, only to meekly illuminate the world with infinite shadows.

One may consider the feeling of isolation and be consumed with despair in this land of desolation. Depraved whispers, a betrayal of thoughts are the first treasons to beset the mind. Delicate they begin, gently caressing the edges of perception only to sink in like hooks and claim consciousness, cannibalising and all consuming. To be forsaken by one’s self is the first treacherous step upon the shattered path into the forest of damnation. Dissonance resounds shattering any solace, pillaging thoughts and ravaging memories like a great catalyst all consuming. Dissent reigns as all sanctuary is surrendered. The next step is taken and all hope is lost, apathy smitten from the cradle of salvation. Momentum once a precariously balanced pendulum sways beyond measure as the final stout gates of resolve collapse and the last bastion is abandoned.

A man calmly walks the path as if an apparition, without pause or hesitation. He stops before entering the forest, frozen footprints trailing behind him a ghostly confirmation on which path he walks. A smile hints across his mouth and a sparkling gleam dance in his eyes as he takes a deep breath of satisfaction. He knows this path well and walked in countless times, this is his path, his home and here he finds his comfort.

This is such a great idea, I love the interaction with your fans! Plus you shed some light on additional Gaiman reading which is by far one of the greatest gifts you could ever give. Sometimes when I’m reading Three Billy Goats Gruff to my son, I pretend I’m Neil and I feel really cool reading it. But anyways… ????

I’m sure my submission was utter trash too terrible to even look at, BUT, it was really fun to write and even more fun to participate in this event. Would love to see more events like this.

A silence fell over the Mixolydian as the last chord rang out from the lute, and it was a silence of three parts.
The first silence was the empty, hollow vastness of a room without sound. It reverberated off the chairs and the people soundlessly sitting in the chairs, and filled the spaces between the chairs with a vast open that no sound filled. Had there been more drink, or a boisterous young man deafly playing after the affection of a woman who clearly felt none of the same emotion, or even the shuffle of cooks in the back room preparing meals, then the silence wouldn’t have been there, but no, there was no more drink… and there was no more food. So the silence remained.
Behind the stage, a pair of men looked at their flutes and harps nervously. They flexed their fingers and wet their lips with the soundless determination of men who thought they played better than they did. In waiting in their willful ignorance they added a small, ironic silence to the first. It soured the first like too much salt, or too much rosemary, in a delicate stew.
The third silence only one person heard. If you had listened to the entire performance, you might have felt it in the awkward chord progression, jarring you from the melody. It was in the way the rhythm jumped and pulsed unevenly, and in the heartbeat of the lutanist as he played sullenly with his eyes closed. It was in the tapping of his foot at a different pace.
This silence was his, for this silence devoured the other too like a man too hungry to care about the flavor of the stew. This silence was the silence of a silent man making more silence in the dark, quiet silence of an empty room filled with silent listeners hoping for something other than silence. It was the silence of a deaf man, who had never played an instrument in his life.

Or perhaps something from the “You may have heard of me” passage, which I’m sure will get lots of attention…

—–

My name is Gary, pronounced nearly the same as “Gary”. Names are important as they tell you what to call people. I’ve had more names, like in elementary school when I went by Jeff – that’s my middle name. My mom calls me Jeffey which, depending on how it’s spoken can mean Sweetheart, Jeff, or Mistake. My dad never called me anything. He died in childbirth – in a motorcycle accident rushing to the hospital where my mom was giving birth.

I’ve stolen candy bars from Seven Elevens. I’ve spent the night in a Chuck E Cheese’s with the creepy animatronic band and left with both my sanity and my life. I burned down the town of Chester, Idaho. I was the tenth caller to say the Phrase that Pays on WKYX FM – twice. I was expelled from middle school at a much older age than most other students graduate. I’ve driven on roads by moonlight that the California Highway Patrol once deemed quote “a danger to motor vehicles”. I have talked to gods while heavily under the influence, loved women unrequitedly, and released an EP Rolling Stone magazine once called “Din”. You may have heard of me.

It was a lonely night at the Hilton Inn for the Master. The Master was a wise man with a fatigued face complete with a surly beard streaked with black and silver. The type of fatigue to which a mother with a newborn grows accustomed. The Master is a master of many things but control of an insatiable hunger is not one of them. His hunger raged like a pack of wolves cornering a lamb. This hunger is why he is feared by some.

As he sat at the Hilton fighting his rage, he saw plate after plate and mug after mug being served to patrons all around. But he had no plate—he had no mug. There was no bar maiden for him. The Hilton was crowded and imprudently staffed with bar maidens at witless as sheep. His regard was slow and anything but silent for this type of for ignorance.

Starting to unhinge, the Master’s beard began to flicker a bright silver. It was when his beard first glowed bright silver years ago that he earned the title of the Master. There is a point at which the Master becomes more beard than man. It was this point that marked the Master’s presence which follows him everywhere. The expanse of his mind, ordinarily filled with the soft sound of the wind trying to whisper its name, becomes filled with rage. Without that sound soothing the Master, a fire burns deep and uncontrollable.

With no bar maiden in sight, the Master’s beard transformed from a black with flickers of silver to a solid bright glow of silver. At that very moment, the entire Hilton was engulfed in flames. When the Master finally left, all that remained was a single door of stone. To be continued. . .

Dismissal was coming. Ding. Ding. Ding. The inner city’s High School hallway nearly quivered with the force of the eruption. The chaotic cacophony of three parts. The most evident part was the sudden bursting of classroom doors – flung askew with wild abandon. The second part was loud music booming, bumping, and thumping from fully powered cellphones, some with sound enhancements. Sound clouded beats mixing with the finality of half-slammed lockers. Unsatisfied teenage voices creating immeasurable tension. Threats, disses, and promises of future inboxing. If there had been a Principal…but no, of course there was no Principal. The third din was not as easily identifiable. If you strained your ear you might be able to discern more matured voices, older voices, voices of wisdom. The teacher’s voices. Pleas for normalcy, expediency, humanity, and chants.

“Go home. That’s it.
Hands off and call it quits.
Take that home or call home?
Check that attitude.
See you tomorrow.”

The hallway was finally clear of students. The relief that the teachers’ felt deep in their eternal souls was as powerful as a whipping, hurricane-forced wind. It was the impatient, broken-pencil sound of a person who isn’t waiting to escape from a blazing fire.

Will unlocked the door to the janitorial closet. His mop hung there, silent and dry. A plaque underneath read “CessUrea.”

Michael came in. “I should tell you that I’ll be here more. As the CEO I will be using the executive washroom.”

Will took a deep breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Michael said “What?”

“Well, for starters, my name is Walt. Walt Disney.”

“Walt Disney?”

“Yes. We faked that whole death and cryopreservation thing to draw attention away from my real work.”

He looked at the mop on the wall. “Mopping?”

“Well, that, and demon fighting”

“Demon fighting? Are you an alcoholic?”

“No. We had to fight an actual Demon. That’s why I created Mickey Mouse.” Michael turned to leave. “Please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Michael started to laugh, then saw that “Walt” was serious. He had heard somewhere that you aren’t supposed to challenge crazy people.

“Mickey mouse isn’t just a brand. It’s a binding. Forcing it into the image of a benign, laughable little cartoon mouse – three simple circles – limits its power.” Walt continued, “That’s why the image is everywhere at Disneyland – on the food, on every ride, balloons trapped within other balloons, everywhere.”

Michael looked at his watch and then at the door. He shrugged. He said, “Will, you are a little odd, for a janitor. I’m not sure what to believe, but we can certainly put the logo everywhere. By the time I am done, everybody on the planet will know Mickey Mouse. And we’ll make a lot of money at it.”

Micheal turned to leave.

Walt let him go.

The Mickey Mouse logo set in the floor continued to smile, cheerful and smug, like always.

I was not sure if this got submitted or not, so I decided I would post it here instead. Enjoy(well hopefully….after all it is bad Rothfuss)

It was the silence of three farts. I desperately wanted to pass the blame on other patrons of the darkly lit tavern. Unfortunately, their unsavory eyes already fell upon me. My mind scrambled, desperately trying to come up with an adequate excuse.

The patron’s noses were filled with the horrid smell, and the look of disgust emerged upon their faces. I played along, making a similar facial expression.

“Must be letting the cows out early tonight,” I said trying to persuade the patron’s attention away from me. “Hopefully, they get them back into the barn, or perhaps upwind from town,” I said shrugging to ease the minds of the patrons. We, after all, lived in a productive agriculture village, and the ‘stench of the cows’ as we called it, happened daily.

I sighed a gasp of relief, as all the patrons agreed with me. They appeared to be holding their breath or taking short breaths, but still, they enjoyed their drinks.

This left me standing behind the bar, causing me to think upon my name. I never understood my name. My parents claimed that I was named after the wind. Of course, that made no sense to me since my name is Flat Ulence.

Heya, Pat. I just ran across something interesting buried near the end of an article on the disappearance of the Norse settlements in Greenland. Did you know this? Skraeling was term of disparagement that the Norse Greenlanders used for the Inuit peoples. It translated roughly as “wretch.” When I saw this I immediately thought of your comment about the word “bint” on your recent Q&A stream. I had never heard the origin of that word and thought it was just a mildly derogatory British term meaning slag or slut – certainly not a complimentary term, but I would have gauged it less defamatory than slut. I had no idea there was a racial and racist component. Likewise, I had never heard the origin of skraeling until now.

Here is my take on the Bad-Rothfuss-Writing-Fun (yes, late as always…):

It was nearly dawn again. The Mybrick Out lay in silence, and the ominous, far-reaching silence swallowed the stars and the sounds of drunken men sleeping, and even while swallowing, the silence remained silent. So it was indeed silent.

Inside the inn, one man challenged the silent silence. He stood behind an old wooden counter (some say, the counter was older than the man himself) and with rhythmic movements, he cleaned mug after mug–without ever dropping one; a skill that he was proud of and that was admired by everyone.
He was a young man, and his hair was brown, brown like a chocolate muffin. He had two sparkling eyes that helped him to see beautiful women at a first glance and women in need at a second. While cleaning the mugs, he blinked sluggishly like a pregnant cat in the burning sun. His eyes, as everybody quickly noticed, were always half-shut as if he were constantly exhausted from adventures he tended to brag about–but in reality, he was short-sighted and too vain to admit it. For this reason, he kept his juvenile friend, Lab, close to him, relying on the man’s seeing eyes and his quick mouth to inform him as soon as women entered the inn. And like a loyal Labrador, the young man always did as he was told in silent admiration for his owner.

Whenever a woman entered the inn, Hesthicle (no, it doesn’t rhyme with testicle) would stop cleaning mugs, and he would smile like somebody who was truly happy. After chatting briefly, he would ask her if she wanted to see his most precious gift: his flute. He would describe the size of his flute and all the things he could do with it, before the woman, eager to learn more, would follow him into his bedroom, where he got his tiny flute out of his trousers’ pocket to show her. He indeed was a blessed musician.

“And so the tinker agreed, ‘All that is in your pack, for one story from me, we have a deal-‘”

“Wait!” Chronicler exclaimed. “I thought this was your life’s story. You are just telling me a tale of a minor fisherman you met in a tavern who told you this legend of a man who traded yarns with the king of Yll. What does this have to do with the price of butter?”

Kvothe spread his hands helplessly at Chronicler’s protest. “That is the way of the world, people tell stories. True stories and false ones. People tell stories about every day occurrences. And people tell stories every day. With all this telling, sure as the ever moving moon, there will be a story about someone telling a story. There will be stories about people telling stories of story tellers and their stories. I am Edema Ruh to my blood and bone, to my face and hands and feet. I am Edema Ruh, and we know every story. I am a story teller, and this is my story.”

I walked up to the bar of the taproom and the tender of the bar looked down at me.
“Can I help you?” He’d asked, obviously aware that I was a little young to be drinking.
“Can I get a water?” I asked. I’d been walking all day and I was parched. The bar was the only place that I could see nearby.
He nodded, happy that he didn’t have to kick me out for asking for anything over my limits. He gave me my water and I downed the glass in one gulp. I’d walked many leagues that day, but who measured in leagues? That’s just a farmer’s measurement.
I left the bar happy to have my thirst quenched. I drew my cloak around my shoulders and continued on my way to the University. I still had a long walk ahead of me.
* * *
A few days later I entered the town of Imre, just a few miles from the University. I needed to get there, I had to. It was the only thing I could think about.
I was walking past the fountain in town when I heard a cracking sound. When I looked I saw a red-headed boy staring at a broken lute on the ground. I was about to go over to him when a word ripped from his throat. “AVARSHAL!”
The wind roared up to it’s name and I was pushed a step to the side. There was one man that took the brunt of the wind, obviously this was the person the red-headed boy was upset with.
The name of the wind. I’d never heard it spoken before. I had spoken it once, that is why I was on my way to the University. I needed help. Ever since I spoke it’s name I felt like I’d lost myself in a storm. I could fake sanity in front of other people, but I knew I wasn’t right. I knew it for sure.

Meant *strictly* for the contest and in fun. Please take the time you need to get the third part just right.

—-

A Cacophony of Three Parts

Dusk was coming to the Pit Stop, and with it, not blessed (and overly-described) silence, but a rising din, a cacophony in three parts.

The most obvious part of the noise was the clomp, clatter and clink as Bast hurriedly wiped and set tables after the lunch rush. Fae were *supposed* to be quiet and graceful, but Bast seemed to be awkward and even clumsy when sober — a rare and probably temporary condition, so the Innkeeper let it pass.

The more subtle part of the noise was made by things that *should* have been lacking, extraneous things, things not contributing to his great work, his unfinished Opus Magnus.
There were incessant dream messages for guest seminars at the University. Invitations to visit and play music at Courts both grand and humble. Bins of scrawled suggestions for improvements to the Bloodless. Chronicler again offering to take notes if he would dictate any. But nothing helped. Would his alar (and word-count) ever recover?

Long-honed instincts had Kvothe peering east along the road, into what should have been the gathering dark. The third noise was not his at all, but made its intent clear as a demand letter from his publisher. The heavy tramp of footsteps at a march. Torches flickered; their light glinted off approaching pitchforks.

It was the restless, angry-ravel sound of Fans whose patience had finally run out.

We’ll, I was late to the show here, and I have no clue if my entry worked, so for your amusement, I present – Dinner:

It was dinner time again, and it was a meal of three parts. The most obvious part was the cold, blank plates, most notable by what was lacking. If there was a slice of beef, it’s aroma would sift through the dim room, painting drips of saliva down Fido’s grisly muzzle, beaconing loves to home and hearth, inviting joy and laughter that comes with family gatherings. If there were only bowls . . . but of course there were no bowls.

Inside the kitchen a pair of children sat at one corner of the table. Their part was to wait with stoic determination and condescension and in doing so they added a splash of color to the meal, a counterpoint.

The last part was fairly obvious to notice. It is hard to miss a bearded man rummaging frantically through silver pots and pans. If you watched for an hour, you might feel the meal grow – the boiling water, the opening can. The man had dark brown hair and moved with the subtle uncertainty of an apprentice on Chopped. The kitchen was his, just as this part was his. This was appropriate as his part encompassed all the others. It was heavy, as a large round cheese. It was humble as a dust of truffles into cream. It was the patient, dump-it in the trash and get the Chinese menu sound of a meal ready to die.

It was Greaoring night at sunrise. Not a lot was happening. Someone left out a bowl of soup that was starting to spoil. It was a stench with two parts. The first was the sour odor that hangs in the air like an autumn mist, tangible right when you walk into kitchen.

The second stench was hard to notice. If you make yourself a sandwich or something you may never know it was there. But it was the greater of the two. It was the stench you’ve gone nose blind to. It seeps into your clothes just enough to make people uncomfortable when you nudge past on the train or in line at the bank.

His name was Gyaikke, pronounced about the same as “Jake.” He was 23 years old and the soup was his. His fingers moved quickly on his xbox controller, unnaturally fast actually. So fast his girlfriend would blush. Except he didn’t have a girlfriend. Gyaikke was alone.

He did some cool shit in college. He stole his roommates date at a party once. He got a B in a pretty tough algebra course. He burnt the rival intramural softball team to the ground, so to speak. He spent the night naked in the quad in November and left with both bronchitis and a misdemeanor indecency charge.

You’ve probably never heard of him.

The third stench was his. He hadn’t showered in like 36 hours because the new Call of Duty released at midnight, and he stayed up all night. He was pretty ripe. I mean–shit dude! It was the stench of a recent college graduate waiting for a job.

An impresѕive share! I hɑve just forwarded this onto a friеnnԀ who was conducting a little researⅽh on this.

And he in fact ordered me lunh duue to the fact tһɑt I discovered itt for him…
loⅼ. So let me rew᧐rd this…. Thanks for the meɑl!!
But yeah, thanks foｒ spending some time to dіscuss this issue here on your Ьlοg.